


Retribution

by TorScrawls



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TorScrawls/pseuds/TorScrawls
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale came back from Heaven and Hell with new hope in being left alone—together. Too bad that wishing for it doesn't always make it happen.Or; Heaven and Hell isn't so easily thrown of their tail and the time before Retribution isn't anywhere near as long as they had hoped.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley got back from heaven with an unholy headache from the light and stiff limbs from the cold emptiness—lucky the hell-fire warmed him up a bit—and went directly to St James' Park.

When he arrived he slumped down on one of the benches and waited. The collar itched against his neck and Crowley scratched it absentmindedly as he thought that for the first time in his life, he had been truly lucky. If Heaven had planned to punish Aziraphale with anything other than hellfire, then he would have been toast. He really hoped that Aziraphale had been as lucky during his own visit in hell.

To his relief, not even ten minutes passed before Aziraphale sat down next to him, back straighter than it had any right to be while looking like Crowley. He smiled and patted Crowley's shoulder, "I'm glad to see you."

Crowley snorted and looked over at the ducks swimming in the pond. "I hope you didn't act like this while down there. Not even they are stupid enough to buy that."

"Of course I didn't!" The indignation was clear in his voice, before it morphed into a proud little smile. "I made them get me a rubber duck. I even got Michael to miracle me a towel!"

Crowley couldn't stop himself from laughing at that and it loosened something inside him that he hadn't noticed tensing up ever since they parted ways. He slumped further down on the bench. "Lucky both Above and Below hasn't really gotten imagination down pat. I'm glad we were right in what the punishments were going to be."

Aziraphale nodded, which quickly turned into a slightly stunned expression when Crowley added, in a voice almost too quiet to hear, "I'm glad you're okay."

Aziraphale, with Crowley's face, smiled; a blinding smile with soft eyes visible even behind the sunglasses. "My dear boy, I'm also so happy you're okay!"

Crowley decided that the expression looked decidedly out of place on Crowley's own face, so he cleared his throat and reached out a hand, "Let's change back."

Aziraphale was still smiling as he nodded and grabbed Crowley's hand. The change flowed up their arms; from white to black and black to white, grey in the middle.

"That's better," Crowley said with a released breath and a crack of his neck when he was fully back to himself.

"I agree. Those pants are awfully tight." Aziraphale brushed his own pants off before getting up from the bench, holding his hand out for Crowley. "I want to check on my bookshop. Let's get something to drink, my throat is killing me. How do you stand all that sulfur in the air?"

"How do you stand all that cold, emptiness? And the light! And _I'm_ the one wearing shades." Crowley countered as he grabbed Aziraphale's hand for the second time and allowed himself to get pulled up. They let their hands linger for slightly longer than necessary before letting go and starting to walk the familiar route to the bookshop.

* * *

Sitting in the warm back room of the bookshop was a welcome change of pace after the last couple of day's very hectic schedule. The world was safe— for now— and so were they.

Crowley stretched out his legs in front of him where he was sitting in the sofa and cast a look around the room; taking in the cluttered shelves, stacks of books littering every other surface, and the dusty kind of coziness he knew Aziraphale was careful in cultivating. "You know, I don't really remember much about heaven." He could see Aziraphale freeze at these words. If it was something Crowley didn't talk about it was the time before his fall. Before Aziraphale could interrupt him, Crowley continued, "Going back there made me realize something."

"What is that?" The question was careful and quiet.

"You really aren't homesick."

"Excuse me?"

"It's almost as if you've decorated this place to look as little as heaven as possible."

"I did not—!"

Crowley waved a hand in the flustered angel's direction and softened his voice, "It's not a bad thing. That place," and he nods towards the ceiling, "was even more dreadfully empty and bright than I remember. And so cold! At least this dusty place could pass for cozy."

"Well. It's nice with some… personality."

Crowley smiled, and was annoyed when he felt it come out more genuine than he would have preferred. "It sure is."

Aziraphale smiled back and Crowley allowed himself a second of revelling in it before he looked away with a practiced frown. Aziraphale spoke in a soft voice, "That's very nice o—"

Crowley raised his own voice and cut the angel off, "But I can't believe they would have actually burnt you in hellfire! Where did the strongly worded letters go?!"

Aziraphale chuckled, even as a sad expression overtook his face. "Even heaven has its limits, dear."

"Don't I know it," Crowley muttered before a smirk spread over his face. "Well, Gabriel won't be so full of himself the next time you meet him."

"What did you do?"

"Let's just say he thinks you can breathe fire now and that you're more than willing to do it in his direction."

"You didn't!"

Crowley kept on smiling and nodded, eyes crinkling at the edges.

Aziraphale gave a short snort before giving in; laughter bubbling out and seemingly filling the whole room.

Crowley didn't even try to cover up his smile at the sound of it, he had decided long ago that an angels laugh must have been designed to bring happiness to all creatures on earth, including demons. Especially _this_ angel's laugh.

Aziraphale wiped at his eyes as he continued to chuckle. He finally leaned back beside Crowley, folding his hands in his lap as he turned towards him with a beaming smile that was heavenly enough to make Crowley avert his eyes. "And by the way, you're in no position to criticise my interior design! I've seen your empty and clean apartment. Not very similar to the dirty and crowded hell, now is it?"

Crowley opened his mouth to retort, but stopped himself as he thought of his sleek and stylised apartment. Aziraphale was right; it didn't look anything like hell, but it did resemble another place a whole lot more. The smile on his face died down and he shrugged. "I guess not."

Crowley frowned, maybe _he_ was the one feeling homesick. And it was for a home he couldn't even remember. He shook his head and clapped his hands, startling Aziraphale. "Well! Thank Someone that's over with! Let's not ever do that again!"

"At least it should keep us in the clear for a while."

"Yeah…" Crowley trailer off and silence enveloped the room. They were both very carefully _not_ thinking about what could happen if, or when, their bosses decided to chance trying the whole punishing thing again.

"They'll figure it out," Aziraphale spoke in a small voice. "And if not, they will still find a way to come for us sooner or later."

"Of course they will! But then we'll have thought up something new. Just gotta stay one step ahead."

"Is that any way to live? What if we trip during one of your metaphorical steps?"

"Then what do you propose we do?"

"I— I don't know."

"Think of it like living like humans!" Crowley threw his hands in the air with a grin that was slightly too wide to be genuine. "You never know when it's gonna end!"

Aziraphale grimaced. "That's the one thing about humans that I don't care for. And besides, if they do get to us, then our death won't come as easy as it does for most humans."

Crowley slumped back down. "I know. Let's lay low for a while. Who knows? Maybe they will forget about us."

* * *

They did not forget about them.

Heaven came first; stern letters and more demanding paper-work that actually required Aziraphale to do the smiting and the miracles for once.

Aziraphale and Crowley had spent countless hours discussing all the ways that both sides could get back at them; coming up with increasingly dreadful and imaginative punishments over increasingly stronger bottles of wines. These nights morphed into them complaining about Aziraphale actually having to work for once—with Crowley's help, of course— even as they smiled in relief at the relatively mild punishment.

They had come to the conclusion that heaven didn't feel like making a personal visit after Asiraphales presumed new ability to withstand and breathe hellfire.

The respite was short as Hell came soon after and just as Crowley had foreseen there was no penmanship in sight. Instead they came with fire and blood and _pain_.

It all started one day as they entered the bookshop after another evening of dreadfully blessed work on orders from Above. The laughter shared between them suddenly became one-sided as Crowley froze in the middle of a step. He took another deep breath and felt his blood run cold at the familiar smell. Sulfur.

The relief he had felt at heavens meager revenge left Crowley at once; now it was his time.

He cast a quick look around, but couldn't see anything out of place. A warning then—a threat. They would come for him and they let Crowley know it, which meant that they knew he couldn't get away.

It was unlike Hell to be subtle in any way but they seemed to have managed to pick up on a few new techniques when it came to scaring people. It worked.

Crowley sent Aziraphale a quick look but the other didn't seem to have noticed the smell, so Crowley plastered a neutral expression on his face and stopped right inside the door. He couldn't drag Aziraphale into this. He couldn't crush the hopeful light that had taken place in his friend's eyes after heaven's meager punishment. He could face this alone and then come back to continue just like before. "I have to go."

"What?" Aziraphale looked over at him and Crowley hated the worry that had already taken root in the other's eyes. Aziraphale was too good for him. He had to leave quick, before he figured out what was going on.

"I have to go. Now. It was nice hanging with you, angel."

Before he could leave, a hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve. Crowley had to consciously keep himself from cursing as he looked up into the wide and worried eyes of his friend. Aziraphale looked hurt and scared, and Crowley found that he hated the fact that he had put that look on his face. When he spoke, Aziraphale's voice was hesitant and quiet, "Why all of a sudden…?"

"You know how it is. Demonic duties and what-not. I can't hang around an angel all the time, what would people think?" Crowley waved his hand as casually as he could manage while not-praying for Aziraphale to drop it, to just let it go and stay out of it.

"We can work something out. Just stay a few minutes and—"

Another whiff of sulfur reached Crowley's nose and he turned on the spot. He had to get out of here now, before they decided to come and get him. "I'll see you later. Stay safe."

* * *

Crowley inched slowly into his apartment. The smell of sulfur was stronger here; permeating the whole apartment and making his eyes water—not from the smell, he was a demon after all, but because of the associations it carried. Sulfur meant suffering, pain, striving for ideals he could never reach and conforming to ideas he didn't share, but most of all it meant loneliness. Loneliness from anyone who had ever understood him, loneliness away from Aziraphale.

Crowley slowly turned a corner and stopped dead when his eyes landed on a very familiar face. A very familiar, unsettlingly _smiling_ face.

"Hello, Crowley," Hastur said with the same happiness in his voice that you would think maggots felt when finding a new source of food. "What did you think of my little sulfur trickery? Smart, huh?"

Crowley opened his mouth to answer but before he had the time, Hastur moved. The breath he had taken to talk left his lungs in a painful rush as Hastur's right hand slammed into his abdomen. He stumbled and then fell as something hard struck his left shoulder, accompanied by a piercing pain. A blade.

"You couldn't possibly think that I would give you time to weasel your way out of the situation again, did you _Crawly_?" Hastur spat his name as if it was something holy while twisting the weapon—was it a damn sword?!—in his shoulder.

Crowley gave a short yelp at the sudden pain.

"Ah, much better." Hastur wiggled the blade lightly and spoke with as much happiness in his voice as Crowley had ever heard from the other demon. "You know, this way of communicating suits you much better."

Crowley scrambled for purchase against Hastur's arm but all he managed to do was rip the other's sleeve. The pain spread from his shoulder in pulsating bursts and Crowley couldn't keep in a groan as he broke out in a cold sweat.

"Pathetic. I can't believe Ligur got done in by such a sad excuse for a demon."

Hastur got to his feet and Crowley groaned where he lay—he wasn't able to will the wound to heal as long as the blade stayed imbedded in his shoulder. He allowed himself a second to suck in a deep breath and press down on the pain before reaching up his right hand to grab the blade in his shoulder.

A foot connected with his hand before it could reach the handle; stamping down on it hard. Crowley cursed as it too was pinned to the floor. Hastur gave a short, joyless, laugh. "I don't think so."

Crowley hissed as he looked up at Hastur, who smiled back and spoke in his usual dead tone, "I was going to pay you back for what you did to Ligur but sadly you are apparently immune to those barbaric methods now. So I thought we should try something new. You like your new and modern things right? Well, you're going to love this."

Crowley forced out a laugh. "Hah! You?! Trying new things?!"

"Hello, Crowley."

The laughter came to an abrupt end as Crowley twisted his head to see who had just entered the room. "Michael."

Crowley kept his voice as casual as he was able to with his face half against the floor and agony emanating from his shoulder. "I haven't seen you since the fourteen hundreds."

"I am well aware that you were behind that mob of humans. They ruined a perfectly functional body."

"I will never pass up on claiming that as one of my deeds. It was hilarioussss." Crowley did his best to keep the pain out of his voice, intentionally dragging out the last s into a hiss as he smiled up at Michael's face.

"Smile while you can demon. I don't care about the humans or what they do but you made a fool of me in front of Beelzebub and all the forces of hell with that holy water stunt, and _that_ was a mistake." Michael smiled as she raised a bundled up package; it was long as her arm and wrapped in what looked like centuries old cloth.

Crowley frowned. "What is that?" Michael simply smiled wider as she started walking towards him and Hastur. Crowley struggled against Hastur's foot on his back and the blade in his shoulder, which only resulted in Hastur barking out a laugh and pressing down harder. Crowley kept his eyes on the approaching Michael. "What is that?!"

She smiled as she raised both arms with the bundle held in front of her chest. "This, my dear forsaken one, is your end."

Michael unwrapped the bundle slowly and revealed a blade. A long, shining, and very sharp-looking blade. The smile that spread over her face matched it.

Crowley's eyes widened as his fear surged into panic. He recognized that blade.

"Where did you get that?" Crowley breathed out with his eyes fixated on the weapon he hadn't seen for six thousand years.

"Well, I picked it up sometime during the last millennia. Can you believe that it was in the possession of a lowly human?" Michael said as she stopped beside Hastur, right above Crowley, casting a quick and disdainful glance down at the blade embedded in Crowley's shoulder. "Can you remove that barbaric excuse for a weapon?"

Hastur tore the weapon from Crowley's shoulder with one swift motion, giving Crowley just enough time to suck in a hissing breath at the sudden pain before Michael plunged the sword down in its place.

It pierced his left shoulder in almost exactly the same place as the other blade; but the _pain._ The pain was on a whole new level.

The sword came to a halt as it reached the floor beneath him; effectively pinning him in place where the long blade bit into the wood.

Crowley screamed.

Something didn't feel right. The wound burnt. Something wasn't—He had to get out of there. He had to—

Before he had time to think it through, Crowley willed his wings into this reality and immediately beat them down. _Hard_.

Hastur blessed as he was thrown off Crowley's back by the sudden appearance of the feathered appendages.

Crowley tried to get his hands under him and rise from his position on the floor but he was stuck—the sword not budging. Crowley raised his head and caught Michael with a startled expression before he saw it slowly morphing into joy and for a bless— cursed second Crowley wondered why.

Then he felt it.

The blade in his shoulder had gone from hot and painful to being on fire— actually and literally on fire.

The fire from the sword spread to his feathers, and then his skin; travelling over the length of his wings and burning, burning, burning!

It took Crowley a while to realize that the screams he heard were coming from him. It took him less than a second to realize that he was beyond caring.

Even without cohesive thought he instinctively hid his wings from this plane of existence again; trying to protect them from further harm, but the damage had already been done. He could feel the fire smoldering and eating away at them even as it sputtered out. It reminded him too much of burning, of falling, of uncertainty and pain and loneliness and—

Sudden pain jolted him from his thoughts and he realized that someone had stomped down on his back; right where his wings would protrude from if they were still tangible. Crowley's throat felt as if it had been burned raw as well, but it still managed to produce a scream.

Hastur's dry laugh filtered into his flickering consciousness from above. "Well, that was stupid of you, now wasn't it?"

Michael made a tutting noise where she stood a couple of meters away. "You won't be flying anywhere anytime soon."

Suddenly there was the sound of a door opening. Crowley struggled against the foot still placed on his back to try and turn his head towards the room's entrance; towards where whoever it was would enter from.

"Crowley? I'm sorry, but I had to come over." The sound of Aziraphale's voice was like a balm on his soul until the panic set in. He can't be here! He's going to get hurt! "Crowley? Are you in here?"

Hastur leaned down close to Crowley's face and hissed, "You stay quiet." If you make a sound that angel will never walk out of here."

"You can't hurt him," Crowley wheezed out between gasps of pain.

"If you continue to whine, then we will." Hastur smiled down at him before grinding his foot into his back.

Crowley pressed his mouth into a thin line and tried to focus on his breathing as he trembled, doing his best to will the world to stay in focus as darkness threatened to overtake him.

Distantly he could hear footsteps approaching and for the first time in six thousand years, he prayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This seems to be the only kind of Good Omens story I'm able to write... So I hope you like it!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you all think :)


	2. Chapter 2

"I have to go."

Aziraphale stopped and looked over his shoulder, a sudden, unexplained, weight settling in his stomach as he saw that Crowley had stopped just inside the door. "What?"

"I have to go. Now. It was nice hanging with you, angel."

The words had a hint of finality in them that prompted Aziraphale to reach out a hand and grab Crowley's sleeve. "Why all of a sudden…?"

Things had been going fine with a dinner, wine, and the promise of further drinking and conversation late into the night. Like they used to. It's what they _did_. They did _not_ make vague excuses and leave at the last minute. Not anymore.

"You know how it is. Demonic duties and what-not. I can't hang around an angel all the time, what would people think?" Crowley gave a wave of his hand and a sneer, and Aziraphale felt himself tense at the orchestrated way of it all, of the way Crowley's left hand was clenched into a fist, of the way his brow was slightly too pinched, and his mouth too stiff at the edges.

"We can work something out. Just stay a few minutes and—"

Crowley's nose flared and he shook his head minutely, turning on the spot. "I'll call you later. Stay safe."

And then he was alone.

Aziraphale ambled into the back room and put the kettle on as he tried to convince himself that he didn't feel alone and slightly abandoned. If he had expected too much then that was his own fault, Crowley was a demon after all and if he didn't want to spend time with Aziraphale then that was perfectly reasonable.

The kettle started boiling and Aziraphale filled one cup. He glanced back to the door and frowned at the other's sudden departure; the unease no longer possible to ignore. Crowley wasn't just a demon, Crowley was _Crowley._

It wasn't until he took his first sip of tea that he stopped dead with the cup to his lips; breathing deeply through his nose. How could he have missed the smell?! _Sulfur._

"Oh no. Oh no, no no."

Aziraphale put the cup down and took a step towards the door, and then he was running; sprinting outside and down the road. He flagged down the closest taxi and got in, urging the driver to go faster and making sure to miracle all the stop-lights in their way to turn green.

Hell had made its move. Hell had finally made its move and Crowley was _not_ going to face it alone.

Aziraphale sprinted from the taxi and up the stairs to Crowley's apartment—the sight of the Bentley parked halfway up the curb outside only serving to spur him on—not stopping until he stood outside Crowley's door.

He nudged it open.

"Crowley? I'm sorry, but I had to come over." The sound of his own voice was swallowed in the eerie silence of the apartment; the kind of quietness that came when someone was trying too hard not to make a noise. "Crowley? Are you in here?"

As soon as he crossed the threshold the hint of sulfur he had caught earlier almost became overpowering. Aziraphale frowned as, beneath it, he caught a whiff of something burning.

He turned a corner and stopped dead. There Crowley was; lying in the middle of the room; pinned to the floor like an insect.

The source of the burnt smell became obvious as Aziraphale took in the sight of something long and burning sticking out of Crowley's shoulder—the blisters having spread over his back where the fabric of his normally pristine suits had burnt away.

Aziraphale took an instinctive step towards him. "Crowley!"

"You stay right there, angel!"

It wasn't until that moment that Aziraphale noticed the two other occupants in the room. The one that had spoken, and was currently standing over Crowley, he recognized as the demon called Hastur. The other figure was even more familiar. "Michael?!"

"Hello Aziraphale. Nice of you to join us." The smile on her face looked like something she had seen once and tried to mimic from memory. "Thank you for your contribution."

"What? I didn't—" That's when he recognized the sword in his friend's shoulder. "Oh. Oh no, Crowley _._ "

His flaming sword that he hadn't seen in millennia was currently embedded deep in Crowley's shoulder; the wound smoking lightly as small flames licked up and down the blade. The sword that had been his responsibility.

Crowley had yet to even acknowledge that he was in the room. Aziraphale felt cold fear grip him; was he already too late?

Michael took a step forward and gestured down at the unmoving demon, a smile on her face. "Do you want to finish it off?"

The relief to hear that Crowley was still alive made him stutter. "I—I can't—I can't do that to my— to a living creature. Whatever their nature."

"I told you he wouldn't do it." Hastur spat out, delivering a kick to Crowley's side that made Aziraphale take a small step forward.

"You are saying you refuse to follow orders?" Aziraphale could hear the anger simmering beneath the words as Michael spoke, even as her smile refused to leave her face. "To smite a demon?"

Aziraphale drew in an unnecessary breath to steady himself and squared his shoulders. "...Yes."

"No. Az—phle." The weak voice could be heard clearly through the sudden silence in the room following Aziraphale's outspoken refusal. Aziraphale snapped his gaze down at Crowley, who was stirring ever so slightly, and felt an unfamiliar sense of grief at hearing his friend sound so hurt and lost. "Azzzzi...phle."

Michael turned her nose up as she sneered down at Crowley. "Disgusting."

"I told you to be quiet." Hastur looked away from Aziraphale with a snarl and focused his attention on Crowley who had just barely raised his head; his unfocused eyes searching the room. Hastur's foot connected with the side of Crowley's face.

"You, step away from him." Aziraphale felt the grief transform into rage; sudden enough to surprise him and more intense than he could ever remember feeling. "Now!"

Aziraphale drew himself to his full height and allowed his voice to boom across the room.

All of a sudden he wasn't the timid, kindly bookshop owner in tartan anymore but the Angel of the Eastern Gate.

"Step back." There was no arguing the authority and cheer power radiating off Aziraphale in that moment. Even Michael took a step back with wide eyes.

Aziraphale seized the opportunity.

He reached Crowley in the blink of an eye and his sudden movement made Hastur take a stumbling step back as well; leaving them a good couple of meters of free space.

Crowley sucked in a breath and raised a clearly broken hand to gesture towards the sword. "T—take it."

"What?! I can't just—"

"Take it." Crowley repeated, before uttering a word Aziraphale had only heard from the demon a handful of times before. "Please."

Aziraphale grabbed the hilt of the sword without further hesitation, steeling himself before starting to pull it up as carefully as possible.

He could see Crowley pressing his jaw together as tightly as it would go, but he wasn't able to suppress the scream as the burning sword was dragged from his shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, dear."

Over Crowley's scream, Aziraphale could hear Michael's voice, "Stop him!"

Aziraphale raised the sword in front of him; blood steaming off it in dark tendrils as the flames grew bigger in time with his anger. He could barely recognize his own voice as he said, "You stay away."

Hastur froze, eyes fixed on the sword, before glancing down at the trembling Crowley and back up. "You are alone against two of us, what are you hoping to achieve with this?"

"Two ag—against two, asshole," Crowley croaked out as he slowly struggled to his feet with a liberal use of profanity and blood dripping from the smoking wound. Aziraphale had to keep himself from reaching out to help.

Hastur laughed. "You are barely able to stand up."

"But he is standing." Aziraphale did his best to keep the relief from infecting his tone of voice, keeping it as demanding as he was able. "And we've worked together since the beginning of time. What do you two have?"

Michael had completely discarded her smiles by this point. "Since the beginning of—you _snake_."

"No, that's him." Aziraphale nodded in Crowley's direction who stretched his mouth into a slightly too-wide smirk—fangs showing.

Michael opened her mouth, closed it again, before saying—in a voice containing all the imagined authority of the self-righteous. "You wouldn't dare go against an arch—"

"I've missed this." Aziraphale cut her off, hefting the flaming sword in his hand. "I can't wait to try it out."

Crowley straightened up as much as he could with his left arm hanging uselessly at his side, fixing a smile on his face. "Don't chop them up too much, Az. I still have some holy water left after Ligur that I really wanna use."

Crowley raised his broken hand and suddenly he was holding a small container; the item popping into existence in his trembling hold.

Aziraphale could hear the strain in Crowley's voice as he spoke and prayed that neither of the other two beings in the room would pick up on it. Considering Hastur's instinctive step back and how Michael's gaze never left Aziraphale's sword, he doubted that they had noticed.

Michael had an expression that was admiringly close to concern on her face and if the situation had been even a little less serious, then Aziraphale would have taken great satisfaction in putting it there. Michael's mouth stretched back into its mockery of a smile. "You will hear from me again."

"I'm counting on it." Aziraphale angled the sword towards her. "Now scram!"

Hastur hissed with his eyes on Crowley. "We will finish this later."

"Yeah, yeah." Crowley waved the container in his hand, a forcefully bored expression on his face.

Suddenly they were alone in the room.

Crowley sank to his knees before Aziraphale had time to do more than let go of the sword; the flames immediately going out as soon as it left his hand. He heard Crowley's knees hitting the floor with a painful thud and turned in time to see the container fall from Crowley's slack hand. He instinctively kicked it to the side and away from where Crowley promptly slumped to the side.

Aziraphale rushed forward and caught him before his head could hit the floor and lowered him down the rest of the way as gently as he could, making sure to place him on his least injured side, and cushioning his head on his lap. "How are you doing, dear?"

Crowley slowly curled into a loose ball, not removing his head from Aziraphale's lap. "Just peachy."

"You should be able to heal the wound now."

"Yeah, just—just give me a second."

Aziraphale waited a tense minute before Crowley groaned slumped down. "I don't have enough energy left for it," Crowley admitted through gritted teeth. "Miracling that up," Crowley nodded towards the container on the ground beside him, "used up the last of my energy."

Aziraphale found his eyes stuck on the seemingly innocent bottle, wishing it was further away from his friend. "What is that? Is it… You know? Really…?"

Crowley wheezed out a laugh before wincing and raising his broken right hand to grab at his shoulder. "It's a bottle of shampoo."

"A bottle of—Your lies are going to kill you one day!" Aziraphale couldn't keep in his incredulous laugh at that as he glanced down at the brave and brilliant being on his lap, even half dead and barely conscious he had managed to outwit a duke from Hell and an archangel. Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley's head and stroked it through his hair.

Crowley closed his eyes and gracefully did not comment on the affectionate gesture. "But not today."

"Not today," Aziraphale repeated with a smile. "Do you want me to help with the healing?"

Crowley opened his mouth, hesitated, before giving a small nod. "Yeah. That would actually be great."

Aziraphale gave a short nod in response before extending his hands; willing the burns to heal. A soft glow spread from his hands, slowly enveloping Crowley's panting form. Before his eyes he saw the burns scab over and disappear, the wound in his shoulder slowly starting to close. He also saw Crowley screwing his eyes shut with a frown, his shaking getting worse, feet starting to scramble over the floor in search of purchase, his head falling from Aziraphale's lap as he went rigid. Crowley's eyes were panicked as they found Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale drew back with a start, both physically and spiritually, his healing light leaving Crowley in an instant. "What?"

"I—I can't—" Crowley almost looked worse than before as he shook on the floor. "Too much divinity."

"Oh. I'm so sorry, dear!" Aziraphale felt like an idiot. He hadn't even stopped to consider what divine healing could do to a wounded demon.

"No, no. I—I'm fine," Crowley said before repeating, "I'm fine," stripping the words of all their credibility.

"You are clearly not fine." Aziraphale put his hands on his hips to keep them from touching Crowley again and risk causing more harm. The sudden distance between them felt endless. "Come on, can you stand?"

"Yes." Crowley managed to get his hands beneath him, shaking with effort and pain before suddenly slumping back down. "No."

Aziraphale graciously decided not to mention the whine in his voice.

"Do you think it's safe if I touch you?"

Crowley lay painting a second before answering, "As long as you don't do any of your mumbo-jumbo it should be fine."

"Tell me if it hurts." Aziraphale looked over Crowley's form and frowned at the burns and the blood. "Hurts more than it already does, I mean.

"Yeah, yeah."

Aziraphale bent down and looped and arm around Crowley's middle, muttering apologies under his breath as he helped hoisting him to his feet. "Where to?"

Crowley groaned and leaned heavily on Aziraphale. "Your couch?"

"That is a bit far right now, I think." Aziraphale's heart squeezed at the implication that Crowley's first instinct for rest and safety was his bookshop. "Let's get you patched up first. Do you have something soft here you can lie on?"

"I have a bed through that door." Crowley nodded towards a door to the right.

"Righty-o."

They started to walk, or shuffle, in its direction. They managed to make it about halfway before Crowley tripped on his own feet and Aziraphale instinctively adjusted his grip around Cowley's back to help steady him. The scream of pain almost made Aziraphale drop his friend. Crowley raised a trembling hand and swatted at Aziraphale's hand holding him around the back. Panic in his voice as he gritted out, "Let go! Let go, let go!"

Aziraphale let his arm drop down immediately, not daring to try and catch him as Crowley immediately dropped back to the floor without the support. He helplessly looked down at Crowley's pale form. "What's wrong?!"

Crowley took a couple of having breaths with eyes squeezed shut, sitting bent over his knees. "It's… It's my wings."

"Your wings?" Aziraphale asked with wide eyes.

"It's okay, it's not that ba—"

Aziraphale interrupted him—too rattled to allow Crowley to minimize his wounds right now. "Why didn't you say something?"

"There's nothing you can do." Crowley frowned where he sat, eyes avoiding Aziraphale's.

"That doesn't mean I can't help." Aziraphale tried to figure out what Crowley could mean by _It's my wings_. Had Hastur and Michael done something to them? What could have happened to make Crowley react like this—even when the wings were hidden from this plane of reality?

"That's exactly what it means. Just give me a minute." Crowley slowly eased himself the rest of the way down, until he was lying on the floor, and curled up.

"Are you going to lie here? On the floor?"

"Yeah," Crowley said in a voice that could only be described as a whine. "Can you get me a pillow or something?"

Aziraphale couldn't contain the small huff of exasperation; at least he had enough energy to act like a child. He walked to the door which Crowley had said led to the bedroom and found himself in a room almost solely occupied by a grand bed covered in pillows. Even as he shook his head at the sinful luxury of it all, he still made sure to pick out the softest looking pillow before walking back out.

He sat down beside Crowley's still form, edging the pillow under the other's head.

"Can you take them out for me? Your wings?"

Crowley tilted his head to the side and glanced up at him. "What? Why?"

"I'll do what I can to help."

Crowley hesitated. "No healing."

"No healing," Aziraphale agreed. He had no intention of being the cause for more harm to his friend.

Crowley nodded and tipped himself onto his front with a grunt. Aziraphale winced as the wound in Crowley's shoulder came into full view.

The sight of them made Aziraphale suck in an involuntary breath.

"Oh, dear. I'm so sorry."

"It's—it's not your fault." Crowley shook his head. "I can just heal them when I have enough energy. You don't have to…"

"No. Let me."

Aziraphale reached out a careful hand and started plucking out burnt feathers, trying not to dwell on the heat that was still radiating off the wings.

Crowley kept silent through the process, seemingly focusing on breathing through the pain and not twitching too much at each pull of his feathers. Aziraphale finished with the left wing and started on the right as the minutes ticked by, wishing for something to distract himself from the carnage of his friend's wings—he could feel his own ache in sympathy.

"You okay?"

"Me? Shouldn't you worry about yourself right now?"

"I'll be fine. They let me off easy."

"…What?"

Crowley looked over at him and repeated himself, slower this time, "I'm just glad they let me off easy."

"You call that easy?"

"Yes?"

Aziraphale removed his hand from Crowley's wing as to not accidentally tear out any healthy feathers. "I can't believe you!"

"What did I do?!" Crowley cast a look over his shoulder with an exasperated look on his face.

"For someone so smart you are unbelievable stupid sometimes." Aziraphale forced himself to relax. "Now hold still."

"Why are you angry?"

"I'm not. I'm worried. Please be more careful with yourself, and—" Aziraphale hesitated with his fingers around a burnt and bent feather, hesitating. "And please trust me more."

The response was instantaneous and offended. "I trust you!"

"You didn't tell me about this." Aziraphale did his best to keep his voice calm and without emotion, it still almost got stuck on the last two words, "You left."

Crowley's voice was quiet as he answered, "I tried to protect you."

"You don't think the feeling is mutual?" The questions was put before Aziraphale had time to stop it.

Crowley didn't answer that and he kept his head turned away so Aziraphale had no way of seeing the expression on his face. The silence enveloped them as Aziraphale focused on plucking out the last of the ruined feathers.

As Aziraphale pulled the last one free, he found that he didn't want to let go of the wings in front of him. He hesitated a second before starting to card his fingers through them, trying to flatten the ruffled ones and brushing out soot and blood. At first he could sense Crowley tensing up, but then he gradually relaxed until he suddenly broke the silence with a quiet voice. "Do you think they'll be back again?"

"Yes."

Crowley frowned and glanced over his shoulder at Aziraphale. It was a look he had mostly seen out of the corner of his eye over the millennia, when Crowley though he wasn't looking; it was worry. Worry for him.

"I'll be fine," Aziraphale said as he made a conscious effort not to stop his hands carding through the soft feathers. How could Crowley possibly be worried about him at a moment like this? "I'm more worried about you."

"I can take care of myself. They got lucky this time." Crowley turned back around again, hanging his head. "But now Heaven knows you went against them. For real."

Aziraphale was quiet, too fixated on the regret in Crowley's voice, and before he could interject Crowley continued, "Even before all this they were going to _burn_ you."

"I guess so…" Aziraphale trailed off as he combed his hands through the feathers of Crowley's right wing. "I don't regret coming here. I don't regret saving you."

"You should," Crowley said with sadness in his voice, but Aziraphale could see the way his shoulders relaxed at the insurance.

"You know, I've seen what Hell looks like now. I won't let them take you." Aziraphale thought back to the darkness, the screaming, the anger and hatred and panic of it all. He though back to the leers of the creatures who were supposed to be on Crowley's side as they filled a tub with his doom. "There's no way I'll allow _that_ to be your eternity."

Crowley was quiet for a long time at that before he cleared his throat. "Same, Angel. Same."

This was more open honesty than either of them were used to, and Aziraphale found himself gently patting Crowley's left wing. "I'm done."

"...Thanks." Crowley slumped forward slightly, hunching over his knees as Aziraphale inched around him to sit facing him on the floor. He was fully prepared to sit in silence until Crowley had regained enough energy to heal himself, but the other surprised him as he spoke, "It—it reminded me of the fall, you know."

Aziraphale hesitated. This wasn't something they ever talked about, except now they did. He kept his eyes on Crowley's expression as he asked, "Do you mean the… the burning?"

"Yeah…"

"I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. It was a long time ago." But Crowley's thick throat and tense shoulders told him that it wasn't okay, and that it wasn't that long ago, not in any way that counted.

Aziraphale chose his words carefully. "It's horrible what was done to you, but it wasn't your fault. Not really"

The indifferent on Crowley's face was too controlled as he gave a small shrug, wincing as the action tugged at his shoulder. "I was the one asking questions."

"I can't believe it's ever wrong to simply ask questions."

"We weren't designed for it."

"But a lot of us did, so apparently we were. Otherwise it was a pretty bad design, if it's so easily ignored."

Crowley looked at him with a small smile and wide eyes. "Is that heresy on your lips, Angel?"

Aziraphale felt a smile of his own spread over his face at the sight of his friend's delight. "Of course not! You have the capacity to change and that's a wonderful thing. Just because you no longer fit your old frame doesn't mean you have to force yourself into a new one."

"What about you then? If you go around questioning things, do you really fit into your old frame?" Crowley cast a quick look up towards the ceiling—towards the heavens, "Or the frame the Big Shot wants?"

"I don't believe we would be created with the capability for change if we weren't supposed to use it in some way. To better ourselves," Aziraphale said with conviction, trying to convince both Crowley and himself.

The concern was back in Crowley's eyes. "But you see what happened to me."

"Haven't the whole Apocalypse business been proof enough that Heaven and Hell are just two sides of the same coin? Maybe your fall wasn't so much a punishment as it was… being sorted to be with those whose ideas aligned more with yours?"

"Oh, believe me, it was a punishment."

"I'm sorry. I know it wasn't good. Or fair."

"Whatever." Crowley shook his head slightly as if to clear it. "I think I have enough energy to heal myself now."

Aziraphale clapped his hands together. "That's great!"

Crowley closed his eyes and within seconds the wound in his shoulder started to close; rapidly stitching itself up into nothingness. Aziraphale could see the tension bleed out of him as the pain disappeared; the relief evident in his long exhale.

Crowley got up from the floor, as graceful as ever. He looked down at Aziraphale with a pointedly disinterested look. "I need a shower. Will you stay? Just for a while."

The question missed the casual mark by a fairly large margin, but Aziraphale was used to playing along. "I was going to," Aziraphale said with a smile. How could Crowley ever think that he would leave him like this? He would have to work on that. "For as long as you'd like."

Crowley nodded and turned away. But not fast enough to completely hide the smile that spread over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind comments! They really cheered me on when i was writing this. I'm so glad someone wanted to read my self-indulgent short fic about these lovable idiots :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the story to the end :)


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